


Osculum Mortis or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Lampreys

by guti



Series: The Continuing Adventures of Merseyside's Finest [5]
Category: Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Detectives, Dark Comedy, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-13
Updated: 2015-09-13
Packaged: 2018-04-20 15:15:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4792337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/guti/pseuds/guti
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Detectives Steven Gerrard and Xabi Alonso investigate an unusual murder and must call upon eccentric footballer (and England's foremost amateur lamprey expert) Frank Lampard for assistance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Osculum Mortis or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Lampreys

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Anemoi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anemoi/gifts).



> Things you should know going in:
> 
> \- This was almost called "MURDER HUSBANDS: FOOTBALL EDITION"!  
> \- It was also almost called "The Great Lamprey Adventure"!  
> \- A character is killed... kind of!  
> \- There are lampreys!  
> \- It's a comedy???  
> \- This hasn't been betaed so any mistakes/typos are mine!  
> \- This is dedicated to [Anemoi](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Anemoi/)! :P  
> \- There's some beautiful fan art by the amazing [ireny](http://irenydraws.tumblr.com/) at the bottom!  
> \- And for those of you reading this as part of the series, this fic is set about seven years after the events of [Cesc, Lies, & Video Games](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5424878).

Frank Lampard had always fancied himself an adventurer.  He’d enjoyed climbing trees and exploring wooded areas as a lad, all the typical rites of passage that any boy enjoyed.  While not so much a troublemaker, he had a sort of wanderlust and a ripe sense of curiosity which made him something of a handful, but he had a sense of discipline which kept him from falling out of line and into any real danger.  He was bright, a good student, and he had a keen mind for biology.  He’d even seriously considered that he might go on to study science, if the whole footballing thing didn’t work out.  But it did, so his love of nature was quietly shelved.  For awhile at least.

As he aged, his adventurous spirit never quite went away.  Despite the demands of his footballing career, he still somehow managed to find time to travel the world, and more importantly to study.  His mates laughed at him, early on, when they’d catch him reading biology textbooks.  They’d scoff, call him Einstein or Darwin, but he’d just laugh.  He didn’t really think of himself as an Einstein or a Darwin.  He didn’t have a mind like that.  What he had was a sort of affinity.  And that affinity was for lampreys.  In fact, he considered himself to be the Indiana Jones of lampreys.  Instead of wild adventures in pursuit of archaeological treasures, he instead went out into the world in pursuit of his favorite animals, to study, enjoy and collect.  By the tender age of twenty-two he’d already amassed quite an assortment of lampreys and eels of various species, all categorized in loving detail.  Each had a name, each had demonstrable personality traits.  In time, Frank had come to look upon these creatures as his friends, and like any good friend, he found them quite fascinating.

He could trace this fascination back to one specific instance, when he was around nine or ten.  He was over at his uncle and aunt’s house for the night and supper had just been served.

“Here we are,” she’d said proudly, placing the steaming pie in the center of the table.

Frank breathed in the rich scent, frowning a little.  It did smell nice, but for some reason, he felt uneasy.  “What’s this, Auntie?”

“It’s lamprey pie,” she smiled.

“Lamprey?  What’s that?”

“It’s a fish.” His aunt gave him a smile, but it somehow seemed false.  Frank’s little frown increased.  “It’s an old family recipe we’re having.” 

Frank’s uncle joined them then, with the cutlery to serve the pie.  He cut into the pie and dropped hefty servings onto the plates, distributing them to each member of the family.  Frank’s cousins chattered excitedly in anticipation of the meal.  

“Smells wonderful, my dear.” Uncle Harry said.  His auntie beamed.

Frank lifted his fork and poked at the pie tentatively.  It didn’t look especially appetizing to him, but he knew better than to insult his aunt’s cooking.  Mustering up his courage, he forced himself to take a big bite, chewing the meat, savoring the flavor.  It wasn’t bad.  Not bad at all.  The flavor was a little strong, perhaps.  Almost beefy, really.

“How do you like it, Frank dear?” He looked over to his auntie, who was watching him expectantly.

“It’s all right,” he said, taking another bite.  “It doesn’t taste much like fish.”

“That’s because it’s not a fish,” Jamie grinned, shoveling another forkful into his mouth.  Frank wrinkled his nose, plainly confused.  
   
His uncle chuckled, “That’s right, my boy.  It’s not a fish.  It’s an eel.”

Frank dropped his fork to the plate with a clatter, overcome by a feeling of horror he couldn’t quite explain.  The room had gone fuzzy, he recalled, and he only found out later that he’d fainted.  Apparently the look on his face when he passed out was so priceless that Jamie brought it up anytime there was any sort of swapping of comical family stories.  But Frank didn’t find it funny.  He found it terrible, and not because he was frightened of lampreys or because he thought they were disgusting.  Rather he was upset over having consumed such a beautiful and fascinating animal.  He’d heard of lampreys before, only the name hadn’t rung a bell until he’d heard the word eel.  He then remembered seeing a documentary program on them once, in which narrator Sir David Attenborough described them as jawless, parasitic vampires of the deep.  Frank found it all rather interesting, but he didn’t protest when his mother blanched at the program and ushered him off to bed.  It wasn’t until they’d turned up on his plate, chopped into chunks stewed in a thick sauce, and baked into a pie, that his passing curiosity became a lifelong passion.  Lampreys weren’t the monsters everyone said they were, and though delicious, they certainly weren’t food.  They were simply misunderstood, and Frank set about to make it his life’s work to right that wrong… after his footballing career ended.  That was the plan, anyway.

By the time he was in his late thirties, he was well known in academic and zoological circles as well as to sports fans across the globe, though for very different reasons.  It wasn’t everyday that a world class footballer could be found moonlighting as England’s foremost amateur lamprey expert, but there he was.  He sometimes thought to himself that he ought to have it printed on a business card, just for a laugh.  But he didn’t.  He was too busy conducting research on lamprey reproduction during the off-season and consulting with the U.S. forestry department to worry about something so silly as that.  

In the evenings, he’d come home to his pets and admire them.  Over the years, he’d amassed quite a collection of lampreys, lovingly kept in a large tank in a room, just off his study. They were so gentle, attaching themselves to lake trout, and bobbing along in their tank.  Watching them gave him such pleasure, and a satisfaction no words could describe.  The lampreys were sweet, docile, and more importantly, they were his.  They didn’t care if he was a footballer or a scientist, they didn’t tease him for his interests.  They just swam around and around.  They didn’t judge him, they didn’t hate him.  They were perfect.

—

It was a hot evening in June when the call came in.  He’d been sitting as his desk reading an engrossing paper on cutting edge lamprey sterilization methods being pioneered in southern Ontario when his phone started to ring.  He’d deigned not answer at first, finding more meaning in his studies than in idle conversation.  It was the off-season, he’d no plans that required notifying the club, so he had no reason to speak to anyone about football.  But whoever it was didn’t let up.  His phone rang and rang.  At last, his curiosity got the better of him.

“Hello?”

“Yes, er, hello.  Is this Frank Lampard?” The voice on the other end had the thickest scouse accent Frank had heard in quite sometime.  It was really something.

“Yes it is.  Who’s calling?”  

“This is Detective Steven Gerrard of Merseyside Police.” 

Frank sat up in his fine leather chair.  It wasn’t everyday he got a call from the police, let alone the police in Liverpool.  In fact, it had never happened to him before.  He cleared his throat and closed his reading, reaching for a pen to fidget with as the call went on.  “Ah, yes.  What can I do for you, Detective Gerrard?” 

“Right, so, I’ve heard that you’re an expert in a very particular field.”  

“I suppose so, yes.”  Frank said nothing more and waited for the detective to clarify.  He was an expert in two fields, and Detective Gerrard might want to be less vague.

Gerrard said nothing for a moment either, apparently hoping Frank would know what he meant.  After several seconds, he gave up.  “Lampreys, Mister Lampard.  Lampreys.  Are you an expert on them or no?  Because this is all time sensitive, Mister Lampard.  A crime has been committed!”

“A crime?” Frank couldn’t help but some doubtful, because what on earth could his expertise in lampreys have to do with a crime?  There wasn’t an aquarium with a lamprey collection in the region, so an eel-napping couldn’t have occurred.  He couldn’t come up with a single logical reason why a Merseyside detective would be calling him to speak about lampreys, unless the unspecified crime involved illegal lamprey poaching, in which case, his opinion might be of use.  

“Are you an expert on lampreys or no?”  Detective Gerrard sounded properly exasperated.

“I am,” Frank said quickly.  “I’d even go so far as to say I’m one of this country's foremost amateur experts on lampreys.”  

“Great.  Now that that’s sorted, we’ll need you to come here straight away.  When's the earliest we can expect you?”

If he'd been drinking, he would have spit his beverage out.  “Excuse me, detective, but you’ve lost me along the way.  What in the hell does my expertise in lampreys have to do with any sort of criminal activity?”

There was a groan on the other end, like the detective thought Frank was the dumbest man alive.  “There’s been a murder, Mister Lampard, and we have reason to believe the murder weapon is a lamprey.” 

Frank was silent for a moment, so silent that Detective Gerrard grew concerned enough to ask if he was still there.

“No, no,” Frank said, “I’m here.  I think I may have misheard you.  You didn’t say that a lamprey was used as a murder weapon.”

“I did say that, actually.”

“Okay, so I’m not entirely sure that that’s at all plausible, let alone believable.”  He made no attempt to mask the skepticism in his voice.

The detective exhaled heavily.  “Listen, Mister Lampard, I’m not going to get into the details of our investigation with you over the telephone.  Let’s just say that the evidence we’ve collected indicates that a lamprey was involved in this murder.  I’ve called to ask you to come in and give us your expert opinion.  Now won’t you please do the right thing and come here as fast as you can.”  

Frank leaned back in his chair and glanced around his study.  The old wooden bookshelves were tightly stuffed with all manner of texts on eels and lampreys.  On the wall, over the fireplace, there was hanging a massive, lovely painted portrait of a lamprey, one he’d had commissioned to celebrate something or other.  His eyes met the painted lamprey eyes and he stared at it, searching its heart and his own.  How could anyone abuse such a majestic animal and use them to take the life of another human being?  Weren’t lampreys maligned enough as it was?  They didn’t need further negative stereotypes being published in the press.  It was an injustice!

“Mister Lampard?  Are you there?  Hello?”

“Yes, I’m here.” Frank answered, standing up from his seat.  “I can be there in the morning.”

“Terrific.” Gerrard mumbled, and the two of them agreed that Frank would be at the Merseyside Police station at 9:30 the following morning.

—

Steven’s alarm clock went off at an insanely early hour and he rolled over to slap at it uselessly.  The sleeping figure beside him let out a disgruntled groan as the shrieking alarm pierced through the otherwise still bedroom.  The clock blared on, falling from the nightstand to the floor with a solid thud.  Steven strained to reach it without moving from his comfortable position in the bed.

“Turn it off, Steven.  Jesus.”

“'m trying.  Can’t reach it.”

“Just get out of bed.”

“No, no, I can get it.”

“It’s going to give me a migraine.”

“Just a second.  I almost got it.”

The alarm droned on at its usual eardrum destroying pitch as Steven continued in his attempt to grab it, noticing a second too late that he was alone in bed.  He looked over his shoulder and spotted Xabi rounding the foot of the bed, trudging bitterly to the alarm clock on the floor.  Steven could only watch with helpless amusement as Xabi pried open the battery compartment on the back of the clock and dropped the separate components onto the floor.

“Hey!” Steven protested, righting himself in bed again.  “I almost had it.  You could’ve given me another moment.”

His partner glared at him.  “My head is already killing me.  Now get up.  Isn’t that lamprey fellow supposed to come in this morning?”

“Oh yeah,” he yawned as he crawled out of bed.  “You know, he’s got the strangest name.  Frank Lampard.  Isn’t that weird?”

Xabi stood at the closet, eyeing his collection of designer Oxford shirts before selecting one.  “Yes, that is an odd coincidence.  This one?”

Steven looked to Xabi and nodded approvingly at the shirt.  “That’ll look good, mate.  Always does.  Wonder, though, if he’s part of that family.  You’d have to be, with a name like that, eh?”

“You ought to ask him.  Maybe he can get you an autograph.”  Steven scowled.  Why the hell would he want Frank Lampard’s autograph?  Xabi looked back at Steven and gave him a half smile.  “Go and shower, Steven.  I’ll start the coffee.  We don’t want to be late for his arrival.” 

Grumbling to himself, Steven stumbled toward the bathroom.  When he passed Xabi, the Spaniard caught his arm and pulled him in to kiss his cheek.  He smirked at Steven then turned back to his clothes.  “Go and shave, Steven.  You look like a hobo.”  

—

Two hours later, the pair arrived at their adjacent desks, early enough to beat most of the rest of their division to the station.  Yes, they were partners in multiple senses of the word.  No, it wasn’t considered very orthodox, but it seemed to be working out well enough.  There’d been no complaints on file, no disciplinary records on either of them, and while some members of the unit had raised a fuss, it turned out there was nothing in the procedural manual which prevented partners from pursuing romantic relationships with each other.  Maybe that was an oversight.  Either way, Detectives Gerrard and Alonso milked that loophole for every ounce it was worth.  Besides, they’d shacked up before they were both assigned to the homicide unit.

Stevie was a scouser through and through.  He knew the streets like they were the back of his hand, and after an injury abruptly dashed his footballing dreams, he’d decided to walk the straight and narrow and become a police officer.  Being a bit of a brawler in his teen years, he’d been assigned to street patrols early on, working with the same hoods he’d grown up around, earning their trust and so on.  He’d been good at it too, earning high praise from his superiors.  They wanted him in the gang unit, supposed it was a natural fit.  And it was, and Stevie was genuinely happy there.  Until Xabi came along, that is.

There’d been some investigation originating in Spain.  A big to-do.  Drug trafficking.  A missing twelve year old girl.  Rumors of a Basque terrorist sect setting up shop in Liverpool.  It was a right mess, and in the midst of the joint investigation between the Merseyside and San Sebastián police departments, a sandy haired Basque officer arrived in Liverpool.  It was Xabi’s first major case, and the only reason he’d been assigned to tag along was that he could speak English better than anyone else in his unit.  He was young, babyfaced, and the world hadn’t yet shit on him.  He still had that optimism that all new officers have— that the world isn’t so bad, that human beings aren’t monsters, that the job is worth doing, if one is willing to do it.  He still agreed with that last part, but the case took quite a toll on him.  They never did find that little girl, but they’d caught the villains who’d taken her, and that was what mattered in the end.  And Xabi’d found Stevie in the process, so perhaps some good came from the carnage of it after all.

It was love at first sight, except that it wasn’t.  There’d been a sort of undeniable mutual attraction there, but being professionals (and policemen) they didn’t act on it.  Stevie wasn’t even assigned to that investigation, he was still working with the gangs, but everyday they’d cross paths in the lift or while walking to their cars.  Xabi complimented his scarf once and Steven took it more personally than he rightly should have.  But what could he do?  What could he say?  Love, it turned out, had a name, and it was Xabier.  And love, as it turned out, had a Spanish accent.  

England— Liverpool held some charm over Xabi, made him feel optimistic that he might do something good in his life.  When he thought of San Sebastián, everything seemed dull and beige.  Liverpool was red, like a beating heart, throbbing with excitement.  Liverpool felt alive to him.  And Liverpool had Steven.  He was charmed by Steven’s persistence, even if he wasn’t sure what to make of him at first.  He’d come to Liverpool with the expectation that he’d do his job and then go back to Spain, but the longer he spent there, the less keen he was on the prospect of leaving.  He hadn’t come expecting he’d make friends with anybody, let alone someone so unlike himself.  And yet, it happened.  Before either of them quite realized what was happening, they were practically joined at the hip.  Every chance they had they’d spent together, talking, kicking a ball around, drinking in the pub, watching footie recaps over at Stevie’s apartment.     

Once the joint investigation wrapped up, Xabi’d requested a permanent position with Merseyside, and the understaffed department welcomed him with open arms.  A month later he had his own apartment in Liverpool and his desk in the precinct.  Two weeks later, Stevie finally worked up the balls to ask him to dinner after shift, to take Xabi on a proper date.  A week after that Stevie asked him to come with him to Anfield to watch the lads.  A week after that they were “officially dating”.  Two years after that they moved in together.  A year after that Xabi said they should get married, so they got hitched.  And so it went, for the better part of a decade.

They’d worked in separate units for most of that time.  Stevie was still with the gangs, using his savvy to butter up the informants and such.  Professionally, he’d thrived, was at the top of his game.  Xabi meanwhile, had been assigned to another floor— the human trafficking and special victim’s unit.  Aside from the occasional consult over Chinese carryout, they kept business and personal affairs separate, and it wasn’t until Xabi came close to burning out that they considered that swapping departments might be a feasible idea.  He’d reached his limit.  There hadn’t been any particular case, rather it was a culmination of eight years spent investigating rapists and abusers.  He could take no more.  

When a spot opened up in homicide, Xabi leapt at it.  At least in homicide, the victims weren’t still suffering.

Stevie was glad for it.  It killed him, to see Xabi starting to falter under the pressure.  Sometimes he wondered if Xabi was even cracked up to be a cop.  But then he’d remember, Xabi was at least ten times cleverer than he was, could read people better than anyone else he’d ever met, and he’d never botched a case in his whole career.  Xabi was a tremendously good cop, probably the finest cop Steven had ever seen, and he didn’t think so just because Xabi was his husband.  He thought so because it was true, and if Xabi would be happier looking over corpses than dealing with people who were bleeding and crying and hurting, then so be it.  More power to him.  He was happy with the gangs, thank you kindly.

Of course, when Xabi asked him to request a transfer, he’d said no.  You can’t work a unit all your career and then hustle off just because the one who keeps your bed warm asks you to.  That’s not how it works, it just wasn’t.  Except he’d caved.  He’d done it, because Xabi asked him to.  Xabi’d found that loophole and demanded they exploit it.  They often collaborated with each other regardless, why not make it official and push their desks together?  Xabi’d been so keen, there’d been this twinkle of hope in his eyes when he’d brought it up.  How could Steven deny him, after the world had let him down in every other possible way?  They could do homicide.  They could make it work.  So he put in his transfer request, and it was accepted, and now…

Now he was looking at the crime scene photos on his desk.  He hadn’t even settled in when he spotted them, waiting to greet him.

“Ugh, Jesus Christ,” he groaned, closing the file again.

“Are those the new autopsy photos, then?” Xabi asked, setting his travel mug on his own desk.  Steven nodded.  Xabi gestured for him to hand them over.

“They’re especially foul, Xabs.  I don’t think you want to look at them so soon after breakfast.”

“Give them here.”  Reluctantly, Stevie obliged.  

It was a gruesome sight, all right.  The victim had yet to be officially identified.  A man, early 50’s maybe, found dead in a lot on the outskirts of the city, hands bound behind him with black tape, nude save for his underpants.  The body hadn’t been there long before it was discovered, and there wasn’t a great deal of damage to it aside from some very particular and very troubling marks all over the body.  One of the young investigators recognized the marks straight away— they were lamprey bites.

“The hell is a lamprey?”  Stevie had asked.  “You mean those nasty little eel buggers?”

The kid had nodded.  “I saw Sir David Attenborough talking about ‘em once.”  

“There’s got to be at least fifty different wounds on his body,” Xabi said as he snapped some photographs.  “Fifty different lamprey bites.”

“Are we sure this fella got bit by some eels?”  Stevie knelt down to take a closer look.  “Oh hell, this is a beastly way to go.”

“Perhaps the lampreys didn’t kill him.  Perhaps there were only a factor in his demise.”  Xabi took another photo and looked to Steven, raising his eyebrows.  “We’ll just have to wait for the coroner to determine.  Until then, let’s try to find a name for this unfortunate soul.”

They left the junior crime scene analyst to collect the physical evidence as they walked back to their car.  “Until we’ve got the ID, let’s call him ‘Eelvis’.” 

“You’re horrible, Steven.” Xabi gave him a quick smile though.  “No more of that.  This is someone’s life we’re talking about.”

“And their death, love.”  

“And their death,” he repeated, lighting up a cigarette.  Xabi was always trying to quit, but the job was too much, the stress levels too high. Every time he said he’d quit, he only managed for a day or so, then he’d smoke double, like he was making up for it or something.  “This isn’t a joke.” 

Stevie scratch his nose, but he gave a nod.  “Yeah, I know it.  I promise, once we got the ID, it’ll be Mister So-and-So.  Utmost respect.  You know I don’t mean any harm.”

The Basque looked Stevie over, scruffy thing that he was in his jeans and old, worn out LFC jacket.  He almost looked like an overgrown hood next to Xabi, impeccable in his expensive European duds, with his overpriced haircut and fancy leather shoes.  They complemented each other rather nicely, Xabi thought, not opposites so much as compensations for what the other lacked.  Stevie shifted from foot to foot, twisting his wedding ring around and around on his finger while he waited for Xabi to finish smoking.  Xabi couldn’t help but let out an adoring sigh.  “Come on, darling, let’s get back to the station.  I want to pull up some missing persons reports before we clock out.”  

Three days later and there was still no lead on the identity of the man.  There’d been no missing persons reports matching the man’s description in Liverpool, none in Manchester either.  It was time to broaden their search parameters.  And firm up the cause of death.

Xabi winced at the autopsy photos.  Even though he much preferred working with the dead to working with the living victims, he had a weak stomach when it came to seeing bodies sliced apart on metal slabs, looking more like butchered meat than people.  Across from him, Steven was watching his reaction.

“Told you they were awful, mate.”

“You did.  I should have listened to you.”

“Yeah, well, we both know you were gonna look regardless.”  Stevie gave a fond snort and started up his computer.  He had some missing persons reports to scour before Mister Lamprey— er, Mister Lampard showed up.

—

Nine-thirty rolled around and they were no closer to identifying the victim and their fellow officers were slowly trickling into the station.  Xabi had gone outside for a cigarette— his second of the morning, leaving Stevie behind to pour over the missing persons reports from Manchester.  His success rate was somewhere in the range between fuck-all and imaginary.  He groaned softly and was about to say fuck-all himself and sneak out to join Xabi for a smoke when he heard quite a commotion near the front door.  It was an excited chatter, not a frightened one, which was a good sign in Stevie’s book, though he had to wonder what the hell was going on.

“What’s all the fuss for?” He asked one of his fellows as he passed,

The officer scoffed, like Stevie was daft for asking.  “Didn’t you hear, mate?  Frank Lampard’s downstairs.”

“ _The_ Frank Lampard?”  He wondered aloud as he followed the crowd down to the reception area.  What were the odds?  What were the fucking odds that Frank Lampard, world class footballer, would be the very same man who was well known in academic circles as an expert on lampreys?  It didn’t make a lick of sense.  And yet, somehow, this was the world Steven Gerrard was living in.

He stayed back, watching the poor sap signing autographs for the demanding officers, hardly flinching at all when Xabi crept up behind him.  He gave Steven’s waist a light touch before settling against the wall beside him, watching the foolish fanboys and girls make traitors of themselves.  “So it’s really him.”  

“Well it sure as hell ain’t his father.” Steven snorted, crossing his arms.

“Are you going to ask him for his autograph?”

“No.  Are you?”

Xabi shrugged.  “Maybe.  I could sell it someday, if I were strapped for cash.”

“It’s not gonna be worth enough to sell,” Stevie said firmly, tugging Xabi by the sleeve to walk with him.  “Come on.  That’s enough idleness, Xabs.  We’re working.”

The Spaniard had the faintest of smiles on his lips, “Yes, darling.”

As soon as Detective Gerrard asserted his authority, the patrol officers dispersed, leaving footballing legend Frank Lampard face to face with the two officers.

“Mister Lampard, good to meet you.  Thanks for coming out here.  I know it’s real inconvenient for you.” Steven said as they shook hands.  “This here is my partner, Detective Alonso.”  Xabi gave a mock salute.  Frank nodded, looking a bit nervous.  “Right, so if you’ll just come with us, we’ll try not to keep you here all morning.”

They led him to a private room, one mainly meant for questioning of suspects.  It was only a precaution, to keep the prying ears of the lowly uniformed cops away, seeing as they had a celebrity in their presence.  As Frank and Steven settled into chairs opposite each other, Xabi left to get tea for them all.

“We appreciate you coming in, Mister Lampard.” Steven said, rifling through the case file.  “You’ll have to forgive me though, I didn’t realize you were _the_ Frank Lampard when I called you in.”

“Yes, well,” Frank said, uncomfortable in the metal chair he’d been provided.  “I don’t exactly advertise my off-pitch activities.”

“You can say that again.  How is it that you came to study lampreys in the first place, if you don’t mind me asking?  They’re a bit sickening, ain’t they?  They give me the willies.”

Frank bit back an unkind reply, letting out an empty laugh instead.  “I suppose I’ve always felt a connection to them.  They’re misunderstood creatures.  Reviled.  Hated, just for being what they were.  I understood that feeling, I guess.  And I always liked animals.”

“So you decided to devote your life to lampreys.”  Coming from Steven Gerrard, it sounded incredibly stupid.

“I decided to devote my academic life to them,” Frank said.  “Science was always the back-up plan, if footballing didn’t work out.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Everything I know is self-taught.  But it’s accurate.”  Frank shifted again.  Three minutes he’d been sitting and already his ass was asleep. “The Royal Zoological Society has published several of my papers, and I’ve received several honorary degrees.”

“Yeah, I read your biography on the webpage.  It didn’t have a photo.  You understand my being flummoxed to have you here now.”

He shrugged, “Yes, I can understand that.”

Just then, Xabi returned with a tray of drinks.  “You haven’t started without me?”

“‘Course not,” Stevie mumbled, placing one of the paper cups before Frank.  “We were just clearing a few things up.”

“Oh?” Xabi took the chair next to Steven’s, settling into it as if it were a throne and he was the figurehead leader of some minor principality.  He looked over at Frank.  “How do you like your tea, by the way?  It’s good?  Is it all right?”

“Yes, thanks.”

“Right, so,” Stevie said, clipping Frank’s words, “We were just getting to know Mister Lampard.  Hey, Alonso, did you know he’s famous?”

Xabi sipped his tea.  “Yes, of course.  His work on lampreys is highly—”

“Not the lampreys, Xabs.  He’s a footballer.”  

“You don’t say.”

“I do say.”

“Hm.  I never cared for it, you know.” The Spaniard smirked, feigning ignorance.  

Stevie let out a laugh, “If you say so.” 

“And you’re also an expert on lampreys, is that so?” Xabi leaned forward, looking Frank up and down.

“Yes.  I’ve studied them for the last fifteen years.”  Frank set his cup back on the desk, not liking the feeling of being scrutinized.  He never liked being judged, especially by people who clearly weren’t as open-minded and enlightened as he was.  What sort of policeman didn’t care for football?  Immigrant or not, that was practically obscene.

“So you’d be able to recognize a lamprey’s bite marks, if you were to see them in a photograph?” Xabi asked.

“Of course.”  What kind of dumb question was that.  If Detective Alonso spent as much time using his brain as he did picking out his outfit (which looked _fantastic_ , for the record), he’d probably solve that murder a lot quicker.

Stevie opened up the case file and rifled through it, pulling out a photograph.  “I warn you now, Mister Lampard.  This is a bit gruesome.”

“We just need you to confirm that the bites found on our victim are indeed lamprey bites.” Xabi added as Stevie slid the photo across the table.

Frank didn’t want to look at the photos at first.  He didn’t want to acknowledge that lampreys, the most beloved creatures in his life, could possibly do something so vile.  But then again, a closer examination might actually prove the detectives’ suspicions were wrong.  And if he could clear them of this horrific charge, then he had to act.

Immediately, though, his hopes were dashed.  He looked over the photos, eyes large, betraying him. He recognized the marks on the body, there was absolutely no mistaking the gruesome, signature impressions of lamprey teeth on flesh. Keeping his jaw set, he gave a slight nod. 

“Those are lamprey bites, sure enough,” he said. His heart was positively aching. 

Stevie gave a quick glance to Xabi. “You're sure on that?”

“Yes, of course. I'd recognize that anywhere.”

“Is this your professional or your amateur opinion?” Xabi asked dryly. 

“Xabs—” Steven frowned. 

“No, no,” Frank said, voice devoid of any emotion. “It's fine. I know how ridiculous you must think this is. Everyone else thinks I'm ridiculous.” Xabi opened his mouth to speak but Frank waved him off. “I've devoted my life to two things, detectives. Firstly, I've devoted my body to football. I've given blood, sweat and tears to the sport, given every physical ounce of myself to my club and country, and while it’s been grueling, every moment on the pitch has been worth it.” 

He closed his eyes and let out a long breath. Talking about football, thinking on his many memories— the good times and the terrible— it all made him so wistful, made him long to be young again. He was getting older now, he wouldn’t have much time left to play anymore. But he still felt the rush when he thought about it, still felt the stirrings of life in his limbs when he recalled the smell of the grass, the feel of the ball at his feet, the ache in his legs after a hard fought victory, the ache in his heart after a crushing defeat. Little else in the world elicited such raw emotion from him. In fact, the only other thing he could think of immediately were lampreys. Frank opened his eyes again.

“And secondly, I've devoted my mind to the study of lampreys and eels. I've studied them, learned everything one possibly can about them, championed them when no one else would. Everyone else looks at them and do you know what they see?  A mindless, stupid, ugly, monster— something from god's nightmares. But they aren't monsters. They're beautiful. They're special. And they are misunderstood. They need someone to be their champion, and that someone is me. So yes, it is perhaps ridiculous for a footballer to devote his mind to these animals, but that is what I have done, detectives. And I never do anything by half. I’ve committed myself fully, detectives.” 

Suffice it to say, the two men were somewhat stunned. Momentarily, anyway. Xabi was the first to regain his senses. “So your body and mind we've accounted for. But what do you give your heart to?”

Frank looked at him, his brows furrowing. His heart?  What heart?  Frank Lampard had no need for emotions unrelated to football or lampreys. He had no room for anything or anyone else, and he was about to say as much when his cell phone started ringing in his pocket. He jumped, startled by the noise and the vibrating. 

“You gonna answer that?” Stevie asked after a few seconds passed with Frank doing nothing about it. 

“Is it all right?” Frank asked, sheepish all of a sudden. 

“It'd be rude not to.” Stevie said.  Xabi nodded in agreement. 

Frank took out his phone then and looked at the display. JT, it read. _Oh_. He cleared his throat and answered. “Hi.”

“Hi?  Hi?  Where are you, Lamps?”

Frank frowned, looking to the detectives, who stared back at him silently. “What do you mean?”

“I mean I'm at your place and you're not here. Where are you?”

“Why are you at my place, John?”

“Don't tell me you forgot.  We're going to have a late breakfast. You asked me to drive you.”

Oh. He had, hadn't he. Frank's frown deepened. He wasn't really close to anyone.  He wasn't unfriendly, per se, but he'd always been a bit guarded, especially after being mocked for his scientific pursuits. The one person he dared call friend was John Terry.  He'd never judged Frank, had always been so supportive, so enthusiastic about his interests even when it was clear he didn't know what the hell Frank was on about. He was, in all truth, Frank's one and only friend. And he'd just blown him off to dash off to Liverpool. Whoops. 

“Lamps?  Are you there?”  John’s voice sounded distant and almost panicked.

“Yes, I’m here.  I’m sorry, mate.  Something came up.” If Frank could feel guilty about it, he would.  But John would understand.  John always understood him, and even when he didn’t quite, he’d always put in the effort.  John always tried.

That did nothing to quell the disappointment radiating through the phone though.  It wasn’t just disappointment though.  There was a certain other edge to Johns voice, something Frank couldn’t quite put a name too despite his high intelligence.  “Are you all right?  You in some sort of trouble?”

“No, of course not, John.”  From across the desk, Steven and Xabi shared a silent look.  Frank’s lips curved downward.  “It’s to do with the lampreys.  You understand.”

It was John’s turn to be quiet then, just for a moment.  “Fine, then.  Let me know if you’ll want to grab a bite later.” 

“Terrific.  I expect I should be free this evening.  I’ll call you when I can.”  And without another word, Frank ended the call and looked back at the detectives, tucking his phone away again.  “My apologies, detectives.  I’d forgotten I’d made plans this morning.  My friend is cross with me.” 

Steven raised an eyebrow at him.  “I’m sure your mate will understand.”

“Yes,” Xabi said.  “Aiding a police investigation is a rather important task.”

Frank bristled at that.  He didn’t need the reminder.  He understood full well that this task was not only important for the sake of the dead man in the photographs, but also in terms of his life’s work.  As much as he enjoyed John’s companionship, his devotion to lampreys would always come first.  It had to.

“So, Lampard, you’ve looked these over,” Stevie gestured to the photos again.  “And in your educated opinion, these marks came from a lamprey.”

“They did,” Frank said gravely.  There wasn’t much else he cared to say, not when he was internally reeling.

“Do you have any ideas as to where our suspect may have gained access to lampreys?  From what I understand, they aren’t exactly commonplace around here anymore.” Xabi asked as he jotted something down in his notepad.

Frank shook his head.  “They aren’t especially easy to find, unless you know where to look for them.  They’re found all over the place, really, so long as the water’s clean enough.  They only place you really can’t find them is in certain parts of Africa.”

“Can’t you tell which kind of lampreys were responsible for the bites on our victim?”

“No.  Their bite marks are all remarkably similar.” 

Stevie frowned.  That meant the lampreys could have come from any number of places, which put them no closer to locating their killer or identifying their suspect.  Xabi seemed to sense his unrest, glancing at his husband sideways.  “How about a number?  Could you perhaps tell us how many of the fish were involved in this incident?” The Basque asked.

“A dozen or so, by the looks of it.”  Frank stared down at one of the photos, a close up of the victim’s torso.  “You can see here that there are multiple distinct sets of bites, yes?”  He pointed several of them out for the detectives.  “Different animals caused these.  This fellow was the victim of a calculated pack attack.”

“Jesus,” Stevie muttered.

“Do they typically hunt in groups?” Xabi said, wincing a little. 

“I’ve seen it happen only rarely,” Frank said.  His pulse quickened.  He wanted to cry, or scream.  He felt as though he was about to betray the one thing he loved.  But he had to do it, he knew.  It wasn’t the lampreys’ faults.  They knew no other way, they only meant to feed.  Whoever had tossed that poor dead chap to them— that was the real monster.  “I’ve only ever seen them behave this way in captivity.” 

—

“Well that was…” Xabi trailed off, fiddling with his lighter, letting the words hang there as he took a long drag of his cigarette.

Stevie slumped against the wall beside him, looking up at the midday sky.  The clouds looked suspiciously dark, like a summer storm would be rolling in.  “That was fucking bizarre is what it was.”

“I was going to say it was enlightening, but yes.  That too.”  

None of it made sense to Stevie, not the crime, not Frank Lampard’s sudden involvement, nothing.  It made him miss the gang unit.  Everything was cut and dry there.  Some punks hated some other punks.  Sometimes they fought, sometimes they snitched, sometimes they all laid low, but at least there was rhyme and reason to it all.  Homicide was another thing altogether.  There was no thought behind some of it, and worse than that, the crime was already committed by the time the police were involved.  At least with the gangs he felt like he could do something preventative.  Looking into murders made him feel useless, impotent even.  He wasn’t going to save anybody.  He was just there to clean up the mess and get some retribution.

But Xabi was thriving.  Xabi was happy.  Even as he puffed away, chain smoking all day, Steven could see it in his face that he was happier.  He looked at the investigations like they were pieces of a puzzle or pawns on a chessboard.  Steven could watch the gears in Xabi’s head turning as he figured it all out.  And the justice part mattered to Xabi.  There would always be crime, he’d once said.  No matter what the police did to try to stop it, crimes would always occur.  It was important to right the wrongs, though.  If they couldn’t stop it, then they should do their damnedest to give the victims a voice.  Steven had always admired that determination, and sometimes he was even envious of Xabi’s drive.  But more than anything, he loved Xabi for it, and he was determined in his own right to keep up with him.  Xabi made him want to be a better officer and a better man.  And he was pretty certain the feelings were mutual, otherwise Xabi would’ve turned his sorry Scouse arse out years ago. So if Xabi was happy and content to stay, Steven would be happy and content to stay, too.

“What’d you make of him?  Lampard, I mean?” Stevie asked, eyes turning back to his husband.  Xabi gave a little shrug.

“He’s quite a character.” 

“That’s a bit vague, love.”

“Yes, it was intentionally so.” 

“I think he’s nuts.  But then again, you’d have to be to play for Chelsea all those years.”

Xabi snorted, clucking his tongue.  “Your bias is showing, Steven.”

“I can’t help it.  It’s bred into me.  Besides, you’re red as I am.” Stevie waved his hand to clear the smoke away.  

“So you say,” Xabi teased.  They both knew it was true, but sometimes it was nice to get a rise out of Steven.  “As for Frank Lampard… I suppose he feels isolated somehow.  You heard what he said before.  No one takes him seriously.”

“He’s devoted himself to studying lampreys, Xabi.  Lampreys.”

“What’s wrong with lampreys?”

“They’re ugly as sin, for one.”

“Steven.”

“Xabier.”

“Someone has to study them.  Someone has to learn these things.  Besides, our conversation today was useful, wasn’t it?  I for one learned a great deal today.”  Xabi had a slight smirk as he stubbed out his cigarette.  

“You’re just chipper because he gave you his autograph.  Traitor.”

“It’s going to make a lovely Christmas present for my brother.  If you had any sense you’d have asked him for one too.” Xabi raised an eyebrow and produced another cigarette.  Steven rolled his eyes at him, ready to chide him about cancer as he lit it.  “It’s a shame he couldn’t give us anymore insight about where the murder may have happened.”

Stevie had to agree.  Helpful as Lampard had been, he couldn't quite shake the suspicion that he’d been hiding something from them.  He couldn’t put his finger on it, but he had the impression that Lampard cared more about those damn lampreys than he did about their poor yet-to-be-identified victim.

Then, as if on cue, the door beside them burst open and a familiar face appeared, beaming at them.  “There you bastards are!  I’ve been looking all over for you two!” Detective Jamie Carragher was gesticulating wildly and was practically shouting, despite their close proximity.  Stevie glowered a little.  Xabi coolly smoked his cigarette.  “Well don’t just stand there!  Put that damn thing out, Alonso, and come on!”

Stevie held up a hand as if to tell Carra to back off.  Even if Xabi didn’t need an intervention, it was in his nature to intervene.  “Come on to where?  What are you on about, Carra?”

“Come on inside,” he said, sure to emphasize every syllable.  “The lads have an ID on your victim.”

Xabi sucked on his cigarette rapidly, not wanting to waste it, sharing a look with his husband.  

“Just now?” Stevie asked, eyes wide.  “Who is it?”

“Yes just now.  Now come on.  Alonso, put that shit out and let’s go!”

“Who is it?”  Xabi repeated the question, puffing away quickly.

Carra impatiently snatched the cigarette right out of Xabi’s mouth, and before either of them could protest or slap at him, he gave them a foreboding, yet strangely excited look.  He threw the cigarette on the ground and squashed it beneath his shoe.  “It’s José Mourinho.  José fucking Mourinho’s dead on a fucking slab in our morgue.  Now hurry up and get the fuck inside.”  

—

The train ride back from Liverpool took longer in the afternoon, a discrepancy Frank couldn’t quite account for.  Luckily he’d brought some reading materials with him for the journey and busied himself reading a recent paper on pollution in the Thames and its impact on lamprey distribution.  It was incredibly fascinating reading, but he couldn’t settle his mind enough to enjoy it.  He stared at the words on the page, unfocused, scowl set on his face.  The meeting with the detectives had been so draining on him, he felt distracted and nauseous and almost like a failure.

Lampreys had done it.  Lampreys had killed that man.  Frank had spent his entire life advocating for them, defending them, and then they went and betrayed him like that!  Of course he knew how silly it was to think such a thing, but he couldn’t help his emotions.  He was hurt.  He felt personally slighted.

His phone buzzed in his pocket then, and he pulled it out, seeing JT had just sent him a message.  Brows arched, he opened it.

‘We’ve got a problem,’ it read.  A second later, another message arrived.  ‘Cops found Mou.’

Frank frowned.  ‘Cops found Mou’?  What on earth did that mean? He typed out his response in the form of six question marks in a row.

‘His wife reported him missing last night.’  A few seconds later.  ‘Police in Liverpool just identified his body.  Expect press.  Call me?’

Frank’s vision seemed to go gray at the edges then, like the train was entering a tunnel.  Except it wasn’t, it was just him.  The last thing he saw before he fainted from shock were the words on his phone screen: Call me?  Call me?  Call me?

—

Looking back now, Stevie wasn’t sure how they’d missed identifying Mourinho immediately.  His face had been riddled with the now familiar lamprey wounds, but now that the identity had been confirmed, there was really no mistaking who it was.  

“I can’t believe it’s Mou,” Stevie said, looking over the confirming documents with Xabi and Carra.  “José Mourinho, dead, murdered in a field in Liverpool.  How in the hell does something like this even happen?”

And who could have done it?  That was the more important question.  Having just had Frank Lampard right there in the precinct only made the situation all the more troubling.  The odds of having found Chelsea’s manager’s body, dead by a lamprey, which a long-time Chelsea player just happened to have a world renown expertise in had to be astronomical.  There was no way it could be a coincidence, could it?

With Mourinho’s identity confirmed, word got out rather quickly and the press began to descend on the station.  The captain would make a statement to the reporters, but there would now be media pressure to solve the murder, and quickly.  What’s more, the coroner had sent them a cryptic message that he might have found something that would alter the course of their investigation, but he’d need a bit of time to shore up his suspicions.

In the mean time, Detectives Alonso and Gerrard would make a few phone calls to see if they couldn’t come up with a clear timeline of the last day of José Mourinho’s life.

—

A small crowd gathered around Frank in the train car, some snapping photos, others attempting to tend to him.  A doctor on board cleared them away as he came to, and after much negotiating he was able to convince everyone that he was safe and well and that there was no need for concern, he’d just had some terrible news.  The public, for once, were respectful, and he was able to gain enough privacy to text John to meet him at home and that he would be there soon.

Mou was dead.  Mourinho was dead.  How could that be?  It had to be some sort of twisted, terrible joke.  But a quick check at the news from his phone confirmed what John had said.  José Mourinho, found dead in a field on the outskirts of Liverpool.  The police were investigating.  No cause of death confirmed.  Homicide suspected.

Frank felt ill all over again.  He wasn’t even sure how he’d managed to drive himself home from the station, or how he’d avoided the photographers and reporters staged to catch him exiting the train.  Later, when he’d had the chance to calm down, he’d note how ashen his face was, note the shock and grief in his eyes.  There was no hiding any of that at all.

John was waiting in his kitchen when he arrived, sitting at the table with a bottle of scotch sans glasses.  His expression was equally grim as Frank walked in and dropped his things on the counter.  “Lamps…”

“Jesus Christ.” 

John looked to him, breathing heavily through his nose.  He didn’t say a word.

“Jesus, John.  What the fuck is going on?!  How is this happening?  My God!  This is a nightmare!  This is all a horrible dream!  Tell me it is!  Tell me this is a nightmare!  Fuck!”  Frank was shouting, voice reverberating off of the tiled walls.  “Well?  Come on!  Say something, John!  Say something!”  

John winced a little, pushing back from the table, crossing over to his friend.  He stood there facing him, studying him, then before Frank could protest, he put his arms around him.  He pulled him closer, wouldn’t allow for any sort of resistance, and he just held him there until Frank slowly relaxed and melted against him, comfortable in his embrace.  “I’m sorry.”

Frank inhaled, shuddering as he did, forehead pressed to the crook of John’s neck.  “Shut up.”

“Do you want me to talk or not?”

“No.  Yes.  Yes, talk.  But don’t say that.  It’s not your fault.  Don’t say you’re sorry.”  His words were muffled.  Somehow, in all of it, he’d wrapped his arms around John too.

“I know,” he said, fingers running soothing little lines up and down Frank’s spine.  Frank nuzzled him, not on his own accord, but out of instinct or habit.  “I don’t know what else to say, Lampsy.”

It was only then that Frank realized that his stuttering breaths were a prelude to actual tears.  He hadn’t noticed he was crying.  It hadn’t even occurred to him that he could cry, not like that at least.  He realized belatedly too that John was not only stroking his back but was kissing his hair, too.  Trying to comfort him, lull him into a calm.  It was working.

“It’s going to be all right,” John murmured.  “No matter what happens, I swear to you it will all be all right.”

“How can you say that?  Mou’s dead.  He’s fucking dead.”

“I know.”

“So it can’t be all right.”

John seemed to stand up a little straighter then.  He pulled away, just enough so that they were staring each other, face to face.  “How’s this then.  You’re going to be all right.”

Frank looked at him, blinking quickly.   “Me?  What’s this got to do with me?”

“I won’t let them get you,” was the answer, as John broke their embrace entirely.  “Come on, Lamps.  Let’s get you packed.  We’ve got to get you out of here.”

“What?  John?  What’s going on?”  Frank stood there stupidly as John blustered out of the kitchen.  He glanced back at the opened liquor bottle, eyes narrowing.  “You git!  You’re drunk!  Get back here!”  John either didn’t hear him or was ignoring him.  Frank found himself enraged as he stomped after him, up the stairs and to his bedroom where John was already rummaging through his closet.  “What the hell are you doing?  Stop that!”

“No,” John said, pulling random shirts off their hangers and tossing them onto the bed.  “I’ve botched enough for you, love.  Let me take care of this bit.”

The older man paused then, expression slowly shifting into one of confusion.  “What do you mean?  What have you botched?”

“Everything.” John paused too, having reached the section of Frank’s closet where all his old kits were kept.  He stared at them for a moment, ran his fingers over the brilliant blue material, traced the crest reverently.  Slowly he turned back to meet Frank’s gaze, and only then did Frank recognize that John had been crying as well.  His tears were dry, but there was no mistaking the red rings around his eyes, or the puffiness of his face.  John had been crying and Frank hadn’t even noticed.

“Johnny, you’re scaring me.”  

“I’m scared myself.”

“Why are you scared?”

“I don’t want to lose you.”

Frank swallowed.  It felt like something was caught in his throat.  “You won’t lose me.  You’re my… my… ” He hesitated, unsure what to say precisely.  What was John to him?  Best friend?  Yes, of course.  But it had always seemed deeper than that.  Their friendship, his only friendship, had gone above and beyond the limitations of such a paltry word.  He loved John, in his way, as best he could.  John Terry ranked right up there with lampreys and football.  “We’re in this together.”  

“That means losing you, Lamps.  Together means losing you.”  There was such a finality to John’s words that Frank found himself growing angry, shook down to the core.

“Stop that, dammit!  You won’t even tell me what this nonsense is about!”  He couldn’t help it, he was shouting again.

John’s face crumbled, just for an instant before he recovered.  “You don’t remember?”

“Don’t remember what?  You’re scaring the piss out of me!  Come on!”

After several pointed seconds spent searching Frank’s eyes, John had to look away.  When he spoke, his voice was just above a whisper, choked, like he could barely bring himself to utter them aloud.  “It was you, Lampsy.  You killed Mourinho.”

—

Xabi was smoking his sixteenth cigarette of the day, sitting outside alone when his phone went off.  He’d been taking witness statements all afternoon, and now that it was evening and the sun had set, he felt a sort of cool emptiness settling over him.  Generally, he preferred working homicide to his past assignments.  The victim’s weren’t broken there, they were just dead.  Dealing with the living… now that’s where things got tough for him.  He could be stern, he could be cold or aloof, but he was soft on the inside.  He was sensitive. He hated watching people suffer.  He hated watching people cry.  Taking witness statements like he’d had to do all day was as close as he came to that anymore, and it never got any easier.

He looked at his phone.  It was the medical examiner, Daniel Agger, asking where he was.  Xabi slumped back against the wall and texted Agger back, telling him to come outside.  The sky above was darkening quickly, the amber hues of evening fading into the deep purples of night, the afternoon storm clouds temporarily parting to give the city one fleeting glimpse of the sun.  Even from the alley behind the station, Xabi could admire the quiet calm of the city.  Too bad it couldn’t stay this way forever.

He was contemplating the sky when the side door beside him opened and Agger stepped out, some files tucked under his arm.  “Where’s your hubby?” He asked, good-naturedly.

“On the phone,” Xabi sighed, looking down then at the glowing ember at the end of his cigarette.  

Agger nodded, dropping down to sit beside Xabi on the steps.  “I was hoping he’d be here so I won’t have to repeat myself, but I’m sure I can count on you to get the message to him as well, yeah?” Xabi nodded.  “Right, so a few things.  Firstly, the tape we found on the man's wrists is standard athletic tape, the kind you’d find in any club locker room.”

Xabi frowned.  “That doesn’t tell us a lot, seeing as we know the victim’s vocation gives him easy access to that material.”

“Perhaps whoever dumped the body had easy access to it, too.” Agger added.

“Yes, perhaps.”  Xabi flicked his cigarette butt into a standing puddle, then slowly turned to look at the Dane.  “‘Whoever dumped the body’?  You mean the killer.”

“I mean whoever dumped the body.”  Agger said firmly.

“What do you mean by that?”

“Your victim died of natural causes.” 

Xabi was floored, positively floored.  Jaw gaping, he stared at Agger, unable to speak for about fifteen seconds.  At last, he regained his ability to articulate.  “What?  How is that… how?”

Agger opened up the files he had with him, showing Xabi the findings.  “I had my suspicions during the initial autopsy, but the results are in now and only confirm what I’d thought.  Mourinho’s heart was severely enlarged, so enlarged in fact that that’s the cause of death right there.  Once it reached critical mass, it probably killed him in a matter of seconds.  He probably didn’t feel anything, was probably dead before he hit the ground.”

“But the lampreys…?”

“The lampreys attacked him post-mortem.  They didn’t kill him, they just fucked around with his corpse a little.”

“Jesus,” Xabi heard himself say.  Could this get any weirder?  “But hold on.  If he died of a heart condition, how did he wind up bitten by lampreys, taped up, and tossed in a field?”

Agger shrugged, handing him the files.  “You’re the detective, Xabi, not me.  You figure that one out. You know where to find me if you need anything else.”

With that, the Danish medical examiner gave a salute and disappeared back into the station.  Xabi stared at closed folder in his hand, then turned his eyes to the sky.  The pretty colors were gone, night settled over Liverpool, and with it the rain began to fall again.

—

Frank stared at John, unable to think clearly enough to process the accusations his friend had just leveled at him.  He watched John, watched his expression falter, his eyes full of sorrow, voice cracking with fear.  “You did it, Frank.  You killed Mou.”  But no matter how many times John said it, Frank couldn’t comprehend it, couldn’t believe it was true.

“No,” he kept repeating, voice soft as a whisper.  “I didn’t.  I couldn’t.”

“You did, Lampsy.  You and he had a scuffle and you killed him.”

“How?  I… I don’t…”

“It was the lampreys.  You used your lampreys.”

It was then that Frank’s pallor changed.  He went ghostly white, eyes haunted.  He’d used lampreys?  His own precious, beloved lampreys?  The very creatures he cared for most in the entire world?  No, no… It couldn’t be.  He would never, never ever…

And even if he had, surely he’d remember it!  No, this was a lie!  JT was lying to him!

“Shut up!”  He hissed, grabbing John by the shoulders.  “You’re such a liar!  You’re trying to hurt me! Why are you trying to hurt me, John?”

“I’m not! I wouldn’t!  No!” John insisted, grabbing hold of Frank’s arms himself, bracing them, holding him.  “I’d never do anything to hurt you.  God, I thought you’d believe that by now, Frank.”

“Then why are you telling me this?”

“Because it’s the truth.  And because this is the only way I know how to save you.  You trusted me to fix it and I couldn’t and I’m sorry.  Now we’ve got to get you someplace safe before the police come after you.”

Their eyes met, and Frank searched John’s for something indicative of deception, anything that might wake him from this nightmare he only half understood.  But he was met only with the earnest longing he’d come to know and expect from John.  There was no deception there, he recognized that now.  

“I…” Frank’s voice cracked and he felt as though he might collapse.  “Tell me what happened, Johnny.  Tell me everything.  I need to know what’s going on.”

—

“What do you mean he died of a heart condition?” Stevie’s voice boomed, echoing off the walls of the department.  He hadn’t meant to yell, but dammit if this wasn’t the most absurd, backwards murder investigation in the history of ever.  He’d just gotten off the phone with some higher up or other related to Chelsea, gathering witness statements about Mourinho’s routine on his last day on earth, and it turned out Mourinho hadn’t even been murdered at all.

His husband slid the file Agger had given him across the desk to him.  “Agger says all the wounds were post-mortem.  Even the lampreys.”

Steven rifled through the paperwork, scowling as he did.  “This doesn’t make any damn sense.  Why make it look like a murder if it ain’t one?”

“Maybe whoever put him in that field didn’t realize what was happening.  Maybe they panicked and dumped the body.”  Xabi hopped up onto Steven’s desk, plucking up one of the papers to look it over. 

“We’re dealing with a supreme idiot, in that case.”

Xabi rolled his eyes.  Stevie absently placed a hand on his thigh.  “Steven.”

“My love?”

“The tape, Steven.”

“What tape?”

“The tape on his wrists, Steven.” 

Oh, that.  “Yes?”

“Has the fingerprint analysis come back yet?”

Stevie shook his head.  “The lab’s backed up after that drug bust the other day.  Carra says it’ll be morning before we get the results.”  

“Hn,” Xabi yawned.  It was getting rather late.  “Who else do we need to speak with tonight?”

“I’ve got this list of potential witnesses to bring in. Most everyone we talked to was next to useless.”  While Stevie and Xabi were still the lead investigators on the case, the high profile nature of the victim meant there would be additional pressure on the department to solve the case in a prompt and thorough manner.  Carra and a few other detectives had joined them and were making calls to witnesses too.  

“That’s good progress,” Xabi nodded.  He’d spent the evening after his smoke break with Agger, getting clarification on the autopsy results.

“There’s a couple of players we’ve been unable to get ahold of though.”  Stevie said then, meeting Xabi’s eyes with his own.  “One of ‘em we had over for a visit earlier today.”

“Oh?” the Spaniard raised his eyebrows.  “Lamprey expert Frank Lampard, personal friend of our victim, refuses to take our calls?  How very suspicious.”

“I thought so too,” Stevie said.  “I think we ought to pay him a little visit, don’t you?”

Xabi gave his husband a knowing smile, then he hopped down from the desk. “Let’s surprise him. Get your coat, darling.”

—

Frank was still staring at John, gaping at him really, trying to process his words, trying to find a strand of logic in there somewhere. They’d moved from the bedroom to Frank’s study, surrounded by the fine dark wooden furniture, with the proud lamprey portrait staring down at them, condemning them silently. Frank couldn’t even bring himself to look at it anymore.

“… So he called here and he said he’d come by in the morning, to talk about the changes, since you were so upset about it and all.”

His brows furrowed. He vaguely recalled that. Mourinho had called him in the evening a few days prior. He’d made some implications about the next season being Frank’s last, said something about needing to find a ‘reliable replacement’ and another thing about ‘old men needing to know when to quit’, that it was ‘what was best for the team’. He hadn’t liked that, not one bit. Who the hell was Mou to imply that he was past his prime, over the hill? It was unjust. It was unfair. It was completely out of line. “He had no right to say that to me. No right.”

“I know, Lamps. But he did. And he riled you up.” John was solemn, looking down at his feet. “You told me to leave. I wanted to stay here with you.”

“I don’t need you to fight my battles for me.”

John was properly scolded. He stayed quiet, then crossed the room to sit in Frank’s big, fancy chair. He took a deep breath, hesitating as he searched for his words. “I came back here for lunch. Mou was dead by then.”

Frank’s blood went cold. Until that point, he’d half expected that John would admit to pulling his chain, fess up that it was all a joke, stupid, ill-conceived, twisted. But there was no punchline to be had. There was only the hollow look on his best friend’s face. “I… John…”

“He was in the tank. Can’t you remember? I do. I’ll always remember it. I’ll never forget that. Floating there, lifeless, with all your damned lampreys stuck to him, bleeding him dry!” John looked to Frank, pleading in his eyes, as though he were begging his friend to remember, to confirm that what he’d experienced was real, that the dreadful scene wasn’t just some dark figment of his imagination. “I don’t know how he got in that tank, Lampsy, but I know how his body felt in my arms when I wrestled him out of there, and I know I had Mou’s blood all over my clothes, and I know you were hyperventilating like a madman, with a crazed look in your eye. You kept saying he deserved it! My god, Lampsy! You pushed him into that tank with those animals, didn’t you?!”

“No,” Frank said softly, weakly. He didn’t. He couldn’t have, could he? How else could Mourinho have gotten into the tank? He shook his head, unable to meet John’s eyes.

John snorted, then looked up to the imposing painting on the wall. Truthfully, that painting had always left him feeling unsettled, but he respected Frank and his work and he knew how important an outlet his studies were to him, so he’d always been supportive and tried to keep his mouth shut. All men had hobbies. Lampsy’s were a little unconventional, was all. But that painting… that was a point of contention between them, even if John had never exactly said as much. He valued their relationship more than he hated that sorry excuse for art, and so he never spoke ill of it. Only now did its presence in Frank’s study seem hideously inappropriate. He shuddered.

“I couldn’t let anything happen to you.” He whispered, reaching out to Frank. “Mou was clearly dead and the police would come and arrest you.”

Frank closed his eyes, not moving away from John, but unnerved nonetheless. “What was I doing? I can’t remember any of this.”

“You’d fainted,” John said. Frank found himself nodding. He had a tendency to do that during shocking events. “I had to act quickly, to protect you. I decided to dispose of the body myself.”

“Oh god. You didn’t…”

“I taped him up and popped him into the back of my car and I drove as far as I could.”

“Oh no. You went to Liverpool.”

“I went to Liverpool.”

—

They arrived at Frank Lampard’s door rather unceremoniously, having taken the train, then a taxi to his doorstep. It was approaching midnight, but seeing as Mourinho’s death was still being classified as a homicide, and they were the lead investigators on the case, no one would bat an eye to them turning up at their prime suspect’s door at such a late hour. The summer storm had stayed over Liverpool and the eastern skies were clear and starry. It was even warm enough that neither Steven or Xabi had need for a coat. Xabi had even rolled up his sleeves. It was that kind of night.

“Front door?” Stevie asked as they walked up the driveway, noting the car parked out front and the numerous lights in the windows. Xabi nodded, following a step behind him. Through one of the first floor windows they could see a pair of silhouettes and as they approached the house they could hear voices, words indistinct but certainly heated. The window was ajar, letting in the cool night breeze and letting the conversation out. Stevie glanced over his shoulder to look at his husband, gesturing needlessly for him to keep quiet. Xabi resisted the urge to roll his eyes and kept his mouth shut as they took cover in a waist-high shrub.

“But why, John? Why?” Lampard’s voice, now quite familiar to both of the detectives, suddenly distinguished itself in the night. Xabi and Steven froze, mere feet from the window now, as they listened in on the conversation. 

“They’d haul you off to prison, Lamps! I had to do _something_!” The second voice sounded more desperate, more frightened than Lampard’s. Steven frowned, desiring to know who was speaking. 

Meanwhile Xabi’s eyes went wide with realization. He elbowed Steven and mouthed one word to him, “Terry.”

“Shite,” Stevie mouthed back.

“But I didn’t kill him! I didn’t! You’ve got to believe me!” Lampard sounded pleading then, as if the reality of it all had suddenly struck him. 

“Then how’d he wind up dead in the lamprey tank? Come on, mate! Explain it to me!”

Xabi and Stevie both held their breath, waiting for the excuse.

“I can’t. I can’t explain it. I can’t even recall any of it. But you know me, Johnny. You know I wouldn’t ever hurt anybody. You know that, don’t you? You know I’d never kill anyone, right?”

The silence that hung between them was so telling it _hurt_. Xabi winced for it. Steven muttered, “Yeesh.”

From inside the room, there was a slight shuffling sound and a quick movement at the window. “Did you hear something?” Terry asked, pulling back the curtains to look outside. Both Steven and Xabi ducked down into the bushes, both praying they hadn’t been spotted. “I think there’s someone outside, Lamps.”

There was more movement inside as Lampard peered out into the night. The detectives remained perfectly still, listening for any cue that the footballers had moved on. But that confirmation never came. Instead they heard Frank’s voice cutting through the empty darkness. “Is that you out there, Gerrard? Alonso? You can come out now. I know you’re there!”

“Well shit,” Xabi whispered, locking eyes with his husband. He wished then that they’d found a better hiding spot, or that they’d simply knocked on the front door like civilized people. Clandestine sneaking wasn’t exactly his strong suit, nor was it Stevie’s, but hindsight was 20/20.

Stevie forced a steely expression and exited the shrubbery first, crawling out on his knees. Xabi stayed down a moment longer, waiting until he’d heard Lampard’s audible sigh to stand up beside Steven. 

“Who the hell are you?” Terry demanded, pointing an accusatory finger at the pair. “And what the fuck were you doing in the bushes? Lurking around like a bunch of perverted prowlers! I ought to go out there and beat the shit out of the both of you, you lewd sons of—” 

“It’s all right, John. They’re the detectives I told you about,” Lampard said, placing a hand on John’s shoulder. “Have you come to arrest me? Is that why you’re here?”

“We just want to talk,” Xabi said.

“We had a few more questions to ask you,” Steven added.

“Then you should come inside,” Frank nodded, pursing his lips.

“Lamps, I don’t think tha—”

“It’s fine, John. Come, detectives. You can even use the front door.”

—

The four men were seated in Lampard’s study, under the watchful eyes of the magnificent lamprey portrait. Xabi had to admit, the room had a certain eclectic charm to it. It wasn’t to his tastes, per se, but he could appreciate the sort of old country manor aesthetic. Stevie, meanwhile, found it to be utterly creepy. By his approximation, it was more like a hunting lodge for rich weirdos than an actual livable home. But then again, he’d grown accustomed to the strange blending of tastes he and Xabi had invented, part bachelor pad, part home decorating catalogue. There wasn’t any dark wood paneling to be had in their home, no musty bookcases, no horrible oil paintings, no ancient cricket bats mounted on the wall in a pair for decorative purposes. The walls of their flat were clean, painted with light colors, the bookshelves were routinely dusted and the old football posters all had frames around them, thank you very much. 

They weren’t there to judge Lampard’s terrible home decorating skills, however (he hadn’t listed it as one of his passions, so it was perhaps unkind of the detectives to presume he had any aptitude for it to begin with.) They had a specific job to do, and if the conversation they’d overheard held any water, it seemed that Lampard’s houseguest might have more pertinent information than the homeowner himself.

“Have you come all this way to arrest me?” Frank asked again. He was seated at his desk now, John hovering a few feet to his left, near the still open window. Xabi and Stevie sat across from Frank in a pair of dining chairs dragged in for their meeting.

“That’s still to be determined,” Stevie answered honestly, eyes fixed on Frank. 

“Oh?” Frank raised his eyebrows. John scowled.

“We’re only here to ask a few questions. That’s all.” Xabi sounded cooler, immediately falling into the role of mediator.

“Good luck with that. What happens if we call our legal representatives, eh? What happens if we tell them a couple of pervert detectives were scuttling around in Frank’s garden, lurking in the bushes, listening in on us without any warrants or anything? What happens if we do that?” John slammed his hands onto Frank’s desk, leering at the detectives, daring them to challenge him.

For his part, Stevie was ready to bark back, but Xabi stayed him, stilled him with a wave of his hand. “Then we’ll go back to Merseyside and get arrest warrants. We’ve got ample evidence to put you both away.”

John balked. “No you haven’t.” 

Xabi cracked a grin. If he was fazed at all, he didn’t let on. “Sure we have. Look at you. Two over-the-hill footballers, on the way out for both club and country. Your manager says you’re done and you snap. There’s a fight, an altercation, if you will. It’s heated. You’re angry. And the next thing you know, old Mou is a dead man.” 

“No!” Frank cried, unable to keep his poker face any longer. “It wasn’t like that!”

“Then how was it?” Stevie asked.

“Lampsy, no! Don’t!” John pleaded.

“I don’t know,” Frank insisted. “But I know I didn’t kill anyone, and neither did John. You have to believe us!”

“‘I don’t know’ isn’t good enough, Lampard.” Stevie was growing impatient. He was tired of all the questions. He needed answers and nothing less. “If you can’t tell us how Mourinho ended up with all them bites, why don’t you tell us instead how he came to be in that field out by us. How’d he wind up there.”

“I don’t—”

“That’s not good enough anymore, Frank. That answer won’t help any of us any.” 

“Steven,” Xabi almost purred, turning his eyes to John. John flinched a little. “Let’s ask Mister Terry.”

Stevie cocked a brow. “Terry? What’d you know about all that?”

John gulped.

“Go on, Mister Terry.” Xabi leaned forward in his chair, waiting patiently.

“You’re not from here,” John said, deflecting.

“No, I’m not.” Xabi shrugged.

“Neither am I.” Steven scoffed defensively..

John ignored him. “You’re what? A Spaniard? How’s a Spaniard become a police detective in Liverpool? It must be a helluva story.”

“It is, I assure you,” Xabi didn’t miss a beat. Beside him, Stevie grew more and more uneasy. He wanted to grab Xabi by the hand and drag him out, find a phone, call for back up, _something_. The look in John Terry’s eyes put him on edge. There was something so despicable about him, and it had nothing to do with Chelsea blue at all.

“What brought you way the hell out there?” The way Terry spoke made it sound as though Liverpool were some sort of podunk backwoods town with one stoplight and no running water. “I can’t imagine anyone’d want to wind up stuck there.”

“I went for my job.” The answer was simple enough. Honest, without frills.

“And you stayed for…?”

“I stayed for my husband.” 

Both the footballers raised their eyebrows. Xabi remained unmoved. Steven narrowed his eyes, heart beating frantically. Why did he feel like things were about to head south? “Xabs…”

“You love him, right?” John continued, leaning in too, meeting and holding Xabi’s gaze. “You’d do anything for him? Anything he asked you to?”

The Basque nodded very slightly, not daring to steal a glance at Steven, who sat up straight beside him. “He is the love of my life. He is the completion of my soul. My heart beats for him. My heart isn’t even mine anymore. It was his from the very moment our eyes met. I am his, and in the same measure he is mine. I would not have married him otherwise.”

John was taken aback. Those words shook him down to the core, they felt so true and so pure. He understood them, knew what is was to feel so strongly and so deeply. But he had to press on. “Would you kill for him?”

The silence was deafening. Xabi said nothing for a long while. Steven held his breath. It was a stupid question, not something he expected Xabi to answer. He wasn’t obliged to say one thing or the other. It’s not like it actually mattered _how_ Xabi answered it, not to Steven anyway. But how he proceeded might had an impact on how John reacted. The mounting tension in the room was overwhelming, near critical mass. So Xabi swallowed and sat back in his chair. “No. But I know he’d kill for me. And if he did, I’d help him hide the body.”

And there it was, the _crack_ they’d been waiting for. John’s face fell then. It was as if his resolve disappeared. “I… I only wanted to save you, Lampsy.”

Frank stood up then, yelping out in a panic, “But I didn’t kill anyone! God, why won’t anyone believe me!” And with that, he darted away, toward the large oak door which led to his inner sanctum— the lamprey enclosure room.

Xabi and Steven were on their feet to chase after him, leaving John flustered and flailing in their wake. As they entered the next room they were met with a dreadful sight. It was both beautiful and terrible in its scope— an entire room turned into a massive aquarium, floor to ceiling, with an intricate spiral staircase in the middle leading up to an observation deck at the tank’s surface. Inside the tanks were housed dozens and dozens of enormous lampreys with different colorings and markings, each more horrendous and disgusting than the last. Swimming amongst them were different trouts and other fish, most with lampreys attached to them. It was truly a nasty sight to behold. Steven wanted to gag. Xabi, however, wished to chase after Lampard, who was climbing the staircase to the observation area.

“Come back here, Frank! We just want to talk to you!” Xabi called up to him. Steven stood at his side, staring up at him.

“No! No one ever listens to me! You all thought I was a joke, and now you think I’m a murderer!”

“No one’s said anything of the sort!” Stevie insisted, taking a step toward the staircase.

“Stay back!” Frank cried. “Stay back or I’ll jump into the tank!”

“Lampsy! Don’t do it, mate!” John gasped, staggering into the room. “Get down here!”

“Listen to your captain, Lampard. Come on down. I promise you’re not in any trouble.” Steven repeated, soothing him as best as he knew how.

“You’re going to arrest me for something I didn’t do!” Frank’s voice hitched, and while he was somewhat obscured from view, they could all tell that he shaking and crying. They could also make out the fact that he’d climbed over the tank and was teetering precariously, lampreys circling around, ready to attach themselves to his body. That was the signal for the men below to panic. Stevie reacted first, sprinting up the staircase while Xabi grabbed hold of John, to keep him from interfering any further.

It all unraveled quite quickly after that. Stevie reached for Frank, to pull him off of the ledge, back to safety. But gravity and momentum worked against them both, and just as he had his arms tight around Frank’s waist, the pair of them somehow toppled into the tank, right into the horrifying jaws of the lampreys waiting at the surface.

Both John and Xabi screamed. Everything seemed to happen in slow motion. First they spied the tangle of limbs as the two men collided together, then the splash of the water, then the flurry of the lampreys and eels as the beasts descended and attached themselves to the flailing men.

“Steven!” Xabi yelped as he scrambled up the stairs, finding that he was first being held back, and then _surpassed_ by John, who’d forced his by and sprinted to the top of the steps, leaving the Spaniard behind. 

In the water, Frank and Stevie were sputtering, trying to keep afloat while the giant sea creatures, encircled them and sank their teeth into their new human snacks. Xabi finally made it up to the deck, just seconds behind John, but he was too late to stop the scene before him. John Terry lept into the tank after them and began to wrestle with the vicious lampreys, working to pry them off of Frank while risking himself in the process.

“What the—! No! Fuck!” Xabi wailed, too late to stop John from diving in. How was that useful? What good had that even done? Now he was going to have to save all three of them! In the water, he could see the situation was growing more dire by the second and he leaned over the edge of the tank, reaching out to grab onto the first human limb he could. It was Frank’s leg. 

Xabi held on tight and used all of his strength to haul Frank out of the water and up onto the deck. He had several large lampreys attached to him with their disgusting jaws and Xabi practically choked the damned things in an attempt to force them off. Flat on his back on the floor, Frank coughed and gasped for air. Disoriented and scared, he sat up suddenly. “Johnny?”

They both looked back to the tank where they could see John was still moving, swimming, frantic but alive. Frank’s eyes lit up. In that same moment, Xabi’s face fell. Where was Steven? He couldn’t make him out in the murky, lamprey infested water.

“Where is he? Where’s Steven?” He breathed, crawling on all fours back to the edge. John was too far out into the tank to reach in and pull him back, even with Frank there to help, and Steven was still nowhere to be found. Xabi could feel his pulse quicken from anxiety. He’d go in there himself if he had to. He might not be prepared to kill for Steven, but he was more than willing to die for him. He kicked off his shoes and was preparing to dive in, scanning the surface of the tank beforehand. “Answer me! Come on, Steven! Where are you? Darling…?”

A few feet behind him still, Frank perked up. ‘ _Darling_ ’? Did that mean Alonso and Gerrard were…? Oh. _Oh_. Everything suddenly made sense, the pieces suddenly fit. As he looked out into the tank, all he could make out was John’s figure in the water, along with the serpentine forms moving in the water. Detective Gerrard was in there too, somewhere in the tank, being consumed by his beloved pets. And moreover… moreover _John_ was being consumed, too.

“Lamps!” Came the cry, muffled and distorted from the water. “Lamps! Help!”

They had to act quickly, otherwise Steven and John would be doomed to a fate most cruel. Frank took hold of Xabi’s hand and started for the staircase. “Come with me!”

“Have you gone mad? We have to save them!”

“We can’t save them from here,” Lampard insisted, tugging Xabi down the steps. “We have to break open the tank. We can’t do that from up here. Come on!”

Though he was being pulled, Xabi hesitated still. He had the horrible suspicion that he was being tricked, that he might not ever see his husband alive again. But as he searched Frank’s eyes, it hit him. Frank wouldn’t let John die. He might be a little strange with his obsessions and his eccentricities, but Frank Lampard was no murderer. He was benevolent, if a little misguided at times, and if anyone had bothered to listen to him, they’d have heard him repeating the same mantra again and again, all evening long. He wasn’t a murderer. He’d never hurt anyone. He was innocent. From that one look alone, Xabi believed him. He believed every word.

Frank led him down the stairs and left him standing before the tank as he disappeared back into the study, only to return moments later with both of the cricket bats from the wall. He tossed one to Xabi then made his way to the glass. “There’s a weak spot along here. If we strike it hard enough, the glass will break.”

Xabi looked at the bat, then to Frank, then to the glass. It seemed so farfetched, he was afraid it wouldn’t work. But the alternative was losing his husband, so he didn’t even hesitate. He just started slamming the bat into the glass, again and again, staggering his blows with the ones Frank was delivering. The hit the glass repeatedly, striking the same spot over and over until a small crack formed. From there it was only a matter of time. One little crack grew and splintered and became another, until suddenly the glass shattered and the water rushed out of the tank, filling the room, flooding the study. Lampreys flopped and flailed about as they were carried by the current. Carried too were two larger forms, crashing and skidding along the floor, coming to rest a few feet apart from each other.

“Steven?!” Xabi sobbed, clamoring to his husband’s side. He had a half dozen lampreys stuck to his body, sucking his veins despite the upheaval everyone had just endured. Xabi yanked on the creatures, half-succeeding in detaching them, all the while trying to feel for a pulse, for breathing, for some sign that the time spent under the surface wasn’t too much for Steven. “Darling, _please_. Wake up for me? Wake up for me, baby? Please?”

There was no response from Stevie, no nothing. Xabi had no choice but to begin CPR.

From across the room, John and Frank watched in horror. John, who was more or less unharmed from his ordeal, reached out for Frank, desperately pawing at him. “We need to call for help, Lamps.”

“But what if he’s dead?” Frank said, fear in his eyes as he curled into John’s embrace.

“I made that mistake once already. I won’t make it again.”

Frank closed his eyes, body shaking as he broke down and cried. Everything he’d ever worked for, everything he’d ever held dear, it was all gone now. He had nothing left. His football career would be over, he’d lost his lampreys and all of his research, and now he’d lose John too. He’d been so foolish, so blind to it all. Up until that very moment it had never even registered that he loved John and needed him in his life. John wasn’t ranked third behind football and lampreys. John was number one, because he inhabited both of those realms. He loved football and he helped with the lampreys, and beyond that he loved Frank and helped with him, too. Frank wept then, regretful that he’d only come to realize this when it was too late. Desperately, he held John tight, unwilling or unable to let him go at last. “John…”

John held him close, their wet bodies pressed together as they swayed. He was about to move, to run off to find a phone to call for an ambulance when they heard coughing and retching from across the room. It was Steven, choking out some of the water he’d inhaled, saved by the relentless work of his husband.

“Xabi?” He wheezed, trying to sit up. “Xabi, what happened?”

Xabi laughed, despite the tension, wiping tears from his eyes as he rocked back onto his heels. “You fell into a tank of lampreys and nearly drowned.”

“But you saved me, didn’t you?” None of that made sense, exactly, but Steven couldn’t help but smile.

“Yes. I had a little help though.” He wiped his nose on his sleeve. It didn’t matter, he’d have to trash the entire outfit anyways. Sniffing, he tried to pull himself together again. “Oh, Steven. I thought I’d lost you.”

Steven scoffed, cupping Xabi’s cheek in his hand. “Don’t be ridiculous, love. It’d take more than a pack of disgusting, pointless, nasty, garbage animals to keep me and you apart.”

“Steven,” was all Xabi could manage as he leaned into the touch.

“What was it you said about me before?” Stevie chuckled, not caring that they were sopping wet, not caring that Lampard and Terry were mere feet away from them. “That I’m the love of your life? The completion of your soul? That your heart beats for me and me alone? That you were mine from the very moment we met each other? Oh, Xabi. Oh, my love. I don’t deserve you. Handsome and clever and a fucking romantic too, you are. And you save my worthless life on top of it? I don’t deserve you one bit.”

“Shut up,” Xabi said, lunging forward to put his arms around his husband. “I thought you were dead.”

“Well, I’m not. You’ll have to wait to get your little paws on my pension.”

“Steven.”

“I love you, Xabier.”

“ _Steven_.”

“You’re the love of my life, Xabier.”

“I’m calling for back up now,” Xabi said, though he made no attempt to extract himself just yet. Instead he let Stevie rub small, comforting circles on his back and whisper further terms of endearment into his skin.

—

Carra and some of the other Merseyside police officers were en route some three hours later. By then it was nearly dawn and the local officers had come and gone. The mess had been explained as an accident with the aquarium, and after each of the men was given a clear bill of health, the paramedics and police left the four men to themselves to wait it out. Frank led them to the opposite end of the house, unable to stomach the sight of his precious lampreys dead and dying on the floor. His lost research and the damage to his study didn’t do much in the way of helping his mood either.

Xabi was on edge too. His cigarettes had been soaked during the ordeal and he felt the beginnings of a migraine settling in. Not good, not good at all.

They sat at the kitchen table sipping tea, wrapped in blankets and towels, quiet and in a haze until Stevie finally spoke.

“Why’d you do it, John? Why’d you dump him in a field?”

John said nothing at first, unsure if he should come completely clean. “I… I wanted to protect Lamps. I didn’t want him to go to prison for killing Mourinho.”

“But Frank _didn’t_ kill him,” Xabi said quietly.

Both the footballers stared at him, eyes large as dinner plates. “Wh-what?” Frank stammered.

“He had a heart condition.” Steven replied. “That’s what killed him. He wasn’t murdered. He died of natural causes.”

“Oh my god.” John said, face white as a ghost.

“So you stripped him down and dumped him in a field for nothing.” Xabi added.

“Stripped him down?” John looked confused. “No, no, when I dumped him, he was fully clothed, in one of his swankiest suits.”

“Bet one of the gang kids nicked it then,” Stevie said with a laugh he couldn’t hold back despite the events of the day. “Glad to hear it, though. Can’t imagine why anyone would willingly want to see Mourinho in his skivvies.” He paused then, not wanting to speak ill of the dead, though no one else seemed to mind it.

“What’s going to happen now?” John asked, edging his seat closer to Frank’s, an almost imperceptible change in the distance between them.

Steven gave a small shrug. “We could arrest you, I suppose. You’ve tampered with a corpse. That’s illegal, you know.” 

The footballers both looked stricken, though for very different reasons. “I guess this is the end, then.” Frank said, voice ragged. “Nothing lasts forever, I know, but I never saw it happening like this.” 

Xabi looked to his husband, eyebrows raised imploringly as he took Steven’s hands in his.

Stevie looked right back at him, noting the curious expression on the Spaniard’s face. He had a bad feeling about it. “Xabi… don’t you dare give me that look.”

“What good would it do to send them to jail, Steven?”

“Dumping corpses in fields is illegal for a reason, Xabi.”

“He did it for love, Steven. I’d have done the same thing for you.”

“Yeah, well, you’re out of your mind.” Stevie snorted, rolling his eyes a little even while he laced their fingers together and squeezed Xabi’s hands. Frank and John exchanged a look as they inched closer to each other. 

“Perhaps.” Xabi met his husband’s gaze through lowered lashes. “They helped me save you, you know. If not for them, I'd have lost you.”

“I know they did, but we can't be so selfish,” Stevie continued, refusing to yield. Xabi flinched. “This is bigger than we are, Xabi. We’ve got a duty to uphold. We’re supposed to protect the public, maintain safety, and so on.”

“Is John Terry a threat to public safety?” 

John and Frank leaned in then, both looking as though they’d been caught with their hands in the cookie jar, though neither of them dared intrude. Steven scowled a little. “Xabs.”

“I’m serious. Is he a danger to society?” 

“I don’t get to make that call.” 

Xabi laughed sharply. “Of course you do. We both do. We make that call everyday. We sit back and decide if a person is a threat or if they’re acting strange or if we think they’re being suspicious. That’s our job, Steven. And if you won’t make this judgement call, then I will. I think Lampard here is better off if Terry’s not in jail.”

Steven stared at him, really studied him. Sometimes Xabi still mystified him, after everything and all that time. They’d shared a bed for almost a decade, and Xabi could still turn to him and say the most backwards, asinine crap with a straight face, like he was completely sincere and meant it. Honestly though, that was part of the Spaniard’s charm. Xabi was slightly mad, in his own way. When it came to the law, they saw things differently. Working with the gangs for so long, Stevie saw the cause, plain before him, clear as day, while Xabi had been weathered and worn down by the effects. He’d dealt with the aftermath, picked up the pieces. Neither of them was wrong, but neither was exactly right either.

“If Terry goes to jail, what’s the best case scenario? Talk me through it.” Xabi added quickly, “And be realistic. It doesn’t involve Liverpool winning any silver.”

Frank and John laughed. 

“Aw, fuck off, mate,” Stevie hissed as Xabi kissed his knuckles and whispered something about being just as red as his husband was.

—

In the end, Stevie and Xabi didn’t need to make the decision, as it had been made for them and it likely had a lot to do with the influence of one Roman Abramovich. Some sort of deal was hammered out, Mourinho’s family got a nice settlement, John Terry’s involvement was kept out of the press, and Frank Lampard’s property repairs were handled by the club. And more importantly, the higher ups at Chelsea, as well as officials at the Royal Zoological Society, banded together to stage an intervention of sorts. Resistant at first, Frank eventually consented to weekly sessions with a therapist, and it was arranged for his lamprey collection to be rebuilt and housed at Stamford Bridge.

Things were really looking up, on that front anyways.

Outside the Merseyside Police station, it was a slightly different story. Xabi stood out back, sequestered and smoking away as per usual, staring up at the slate colored sky. Overcast again, but what did he expect? Liverpool might be red to him, but sometimes the grey seemed to seep in where it wasn’t wanted. Ever since the whole Lampard-Terry-Mourinho affair, things had been strained between himself and Steven. He couldn’t quite figure out why. Sure, it had been a complete mess, but some of it was out of their hands. They were homicide detectives and there hadn’t actually been a homicide. However the prosecutors and higher ranking officers dealt with it was up to them. Xabi and Stevie had other work to do.

Except it was hard to focus when Stevie would barely speak to him. If they weren’t partners and were only married, it would be one thing— tough but manageable in the end. Working side by side though… there was only so much stress a man should take. Xabi took a drag, turning his head as a figure emerged from the side door.

“Xabs,” Stevie said, crossing his arms as he leaned against the wall next to him. “I’ve been looking for you.”

Xabi forced himself to smile. “I’m always here, darling.”

“I’ve got a surprise for you,” the Scouser said, watching him intently.

“Oh?”

“Mm. Got the next week off. Boss man says I’ve earned it after all this shite with the lampreys.” He couldn’t help it, he was grinning. “And I thought, you know it’s been awhile since I had a proper vacation, so I booked one.”

Xabi’s face fell as he flicked the cigarette butt away. “So you’re leaving? Just like that?”

“Well, yeah,” Stevie gave him a puzzled look for a long moment, then burst out laughing. “But you’re coming with me, love. You got the week off too. Now come on, let’s go home. Our flight leaves at midnight and we’ve got to pack.”

“You’re out of your mind,” Xabi said, eyes wide, laughing too as Steven took his hand. “Where are we going?”

“To San Sebastián, of course.”

“Ah.”

Stevie paused then, looking Xabi squarely in the eyes, heart racing as he did. “I did okay, didn’t I? I just thought, if you could go anywhere…”

“If I could go anywhere, I’d stay right here with you.” Xabi said simply, putting his arms around his husband’s neck. Steven frowned a little, thinking he’d messed up somehow. “ _But_ , seeing as you’ve already spent your money, a week in San Sebastián isn’t going to kill me. Rather, I think that a second honeymoon is precisely what we need right now.”

“Is that your professional or your amateur opinion?” Steven beamed.

Xabi bit his lower lip and raised an eyebrow before releasing his grasp and sauntering past Steven. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

~THE END???~

~~~

 **BONUS:**  
the wonderfully talented [ireny](http://irenydraws.tumblr.com/) has created a beautiful piece of companion art and i'm crying! please check out her tumblr for more beautiful art!!! thank you so much, ireny! i am so honored that this has inspired such a reaction! i saw this and laughed until i cried!

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so sorry for this. I wish I could justify the existence of this fic but I really can't. [Anemoi](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Anemoi/) is responsible for planting the idea in the first place (and for me even _considering_ writing any Lamperry... seriously wtf how did this happen to me I don't even like Chelsea ughhh???) Basically this started out as us laughing about 'Lamperry' autocorrecting to 'Lamprey'. And now there's a fic! I hope you like it, dear!  <333
> 
> Also thank you to [pimpam](http://archiveofourown.org/users/pimpam/) for putting up with my plotting and nonstop talking about this, even though she is afraid of lampreys! <333


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